Archive for March, 2011

Music and books … two of my favorite most things (along with ice cream and smiles).

We went to the Berks Jazz Festival this weekend and saw a 90 year old piano player. He wasn’t bad … Brubeck, wasn’t it, Louie? Now THAT is a Louie-Louie Generation member of the first order, Lassies and Laddies. I don’t mind being a charter member when Mr. Brubeck is also there. He can play!

We also ended up at the Grand Opera to see Tom Rush. Am I dating myself? He, as usual, was super. He sang the River Song which I love, and his voice still makes me feel good.

And then there was that marvelous picture of my very own Louie-Louie Lad in Donna Halper’s book called “Images of America – Boston Radio 1920-2010” … yeah, it made me smile and remember some VERY old times. Bruce Bradley and Bob Kennedy (BZ’s Mr. K, not the other) and even Jefferson Kaye. My mom loved him ‘cause he was Polish.

Radio is, of course, no longer the fun place it used to be, and lots of our favorite radio lads and lassies have left us. But for Louie-Louie Generation members, radio will always be the one place we had that was all ours. Music we cared about, played by people we knew just from listening to their stories and ideas.

Yes, Dick is still working … which is probably why I lose my cool once in awhile. He should be flying … and writing … and chasing me … well, yeah, he does all that but he shouldn’t have to stop to answer the phone or send an e-mail. I’m greedy.

I am the youngest person in Port St. Lucie ! This place is Heaven’s Waiting Room. Downtown looks like a Halloween parade. We are watching the N.Y. Mets flail about furiously trying to play baseball. “Wait till next year” is already the fantasy heard around the stadium.

I have a really nasty cold that is not going away. Even reading isn’t something I want to do right now. So I’ve had the TV going…and talk about pain !Three of those two minute Bowflex exercise commercials in a row crunched into my TV tonight. One of them is all you should be allowed to watch without a note from your doctor. Don’t get me wrong… I exercise. Every morning when I wake up, I go up down, up down, up down…then I do the same thing with the other eyelid.

Actually…I do push ups most days…and I ride my bike…because like most Louie-Louie generation guys… I don’t want to get any fatter than necessary. It is guys like me who are the reason that Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation often says…”All god’s children are not beautiful. In fact some of us are just barely cute.” Big Louie also says, “If you must work out…you ought to do it early in the morning before your brain can figure out what you’re doing.” And as usual, he’s right.

I did morning D.J. shows in New York and Boston…so, I know you can do lots of stuff before your brain wakes up. People often use coffee to wake their brains up in the morning. But most of them don’t do it properly. To wake up your brain really fast, don’t drink your coffee…just pour it in your lap. That does it every time.

I bet the Bowflex machine isn’t nearly as exhausting as those damn two minute long commercials. I do television commercials for a living. I try to make them as short, simple, and interesting as I can. Because like you, I detest TV commercials.

I especially hate the TV commercials with the voice over guys who have the snarling voices that sound like they’re really saying…”Buy this product…or me and a bunch of other very ugly guys will come over to your house at 4 am and look in your bedroom window.”

And oh do I hate the screamers. You want to kill them by stuffing a pillow into their mouths, and holding it over their noses for a few minutes while you’re at it.

Then there’s the pretty, perky young woman with the phone headset telling you, “If you call right now without even taking the time to think about it or change your underwear, you’ll also get three extra widgets and the title to the state of Minnesota.”

The ad agency guys talk about you in the control room when you’re doing a commercial voice over. You can see them, but you can’t hear what they’re saying. So I used to try to read their lips. But I stopped. Because it usually looked like they were saying…”Who hired him. Oh my God what are we going to do.” But then when they hit the talkback button on the mic, they always say…”Hey…that was great…really great. But let’s try it again, and this time try to make it sound more like George Clooney.”

One time my agent sent me on an audition, and he said, “you’ve really got this made…they want somebody who sounds like Dick Summer.” But when I got there, the casting guy who had never met Dick Summer, hit the talk back mike and said “Hey, that was great…really great…but this time try to make it sound more like Henry Fonda.” That was before anybody ever heard of George Clooney. Bottom line was that a guy by the name of Jonathan Schwartz got the commercial for which they wanted somebody who sounds like Dick Summer. He must have sounded more like Henry Fonda than I do.

Some of the networks are now stuffing so many commercials into their programs that you can completely lose track of what’s going on in the program. Most of the commercials in an hour of TV run in the last forty minutes of that hour. They’re trying to manipulate the audience ratings by doing that. And they are succeeding beyond their wildest imaginations. There’s almost no audience watching at all after that last twenty minutes full of commercials.

That’s why now there’s the DVR ! Digital Video Recorder. The TiVo. The idiots running TV have now greed-ied things up so badly by selling so many commercials that we’ve figured out a way to never have to watch commercials again. That’ll fix them. And me too I guess.

My neighbor Steve knows I do TV commercials. We don’t like each other. It probably won’t be long until he starts pointing his TiVo remote at me if we meet on the street.

I did some of the first TV commercials for the panty hose that came in a packaging that I could never figure out…it was a plastic egg. That made sense only if you consider that Hugh Hefner’s Bunnies would look good delivering them at Easter. Those commercials were pretty risqué stuff in those days. And for a short and wonderful time, those panty hose commercials must have kind of type cast me, because then I did a bunch of commercials for Cross Your Heart bras. Those were really interesting recording sessions.

We now have commercials for “erectile disfunction.” That description is a major achievement…a milestone…in the development of the English language. Erectile disfunction. They nicknamed it, E.D. I call it, “ED’s Disease,” which does not sit well with my buddy Ed. I can think of three things we used to call it when I was a kid…and I’ll bet you can too. And how come we see lots of commercials for erectile disfunction, but we don’t see any for condoms ? I thought we were supposed to be “fair and balanced.”

Vasectomy is another word which can be considered an important development in the formation of the English language. My Lady Wonder Wench had her horse vasectomized. But vasectomy isn’t a word they use in connection with a horse. She called it having the horse “fixed.” Interestingly, when he heard about it, our son Eric said, “That’s not having him fixed that’s having him broken”…and he’s right.

I suppose we actually needed a word like vasectomy, because there are those of us who feel we have passed enough of our genes down to the next generation. But no Louie-Louie Generation guy I know would ever go to be fixed, spayed or broken.

It is impossible to explain to a woman how guys feel about things that threaten our viagral parts. As a joke…sort of…I frequently told the guys at the stable where my Lady Wonder Wench kept her horse that they will never know when I will show up in my little airplane…and they better keep their hands off Lady W.W. or I will perform a vasectomy on them with my propeller. We always enjoyed a nice laugh together about that, but then the next day, I got to do all the laughing, because I used to fly low and buzz the barn and watch them scatter.

I’m looking forward to getting over this cold in the very near future, because you shouldn’t fly if you’ve got a cold, and if I don’t get up in the air again soon, I’m going to start breaking out.

My Lady Wonder Wench likes flying with me. And when she’s riding in our little airplane, running the radios for me, I call her my Prop-Chick.

There’s a story about L. W. Wench’s Prop-Chick-Hood in the current podcast. It’s called, The Lady Wonder Wench Ski Fantasy. Give it a listen. It’s commercial free.

Hey, I’m saying hello to all those LLLasses and Lads who have been generous enough to touch fingertips with me.

We’ve been on vacation (!) and it was, as the saying goes, loverly. But now we are home … and I’m not sure just how far that loverly stretches. Tired? Yeah, guess you could say that. But maybe it’s a female thing. I don’t feel worn out (yet … okay, I’ll give you LLLads that) and there are ten zillion things to get done before I can sit back and grin and say, “Been on vacation, Vigi, and it was great.” So why does my LLLad go around with a sour face ‘cause he IS tired and things are not working out quite right yet for him? He doesn’t HAVE to be back to work until next week. But he is working. He doesn’t HAVE to do anything except sit back and let that great vacation percolate its way through his system. But he is wandering and looking for things to find wrong. He doesn’t HAVE to figure out laundry and grocery shopping and bills to pay that came in while we were gone and phone messages to answer and how to fix his cold so it doesn’t make him feel worse … and … and …

Damn, I know he’s tired and glad to be home and all the rest of that good stuff. But he is neither old nor unsexy … so why does he act as if he is? It has to be a LLLad thing.

WE Louie-Louie Lassies don’t have that problem. And you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Big Louie …

A terrorist cold bug has seized me ! So I am fleeing to Florida with my Lady Wonder Wench, to boil it out of my bod. This is not the first terrorist creature that has crept into our lives. Another beast challenged my monster defying abilities a while ago. In case you have forgotton…here is the legend… re-told:

I love “Once upon a time”. Stories rule. Especially true ones like this. Once upon a time… 4:18 AM last night to be specific. I was asleep…in the middle of a dream that seemed to have something to do with Catherine Zeta Jones. I didn’t even notice my Lady Wonder Wench getting out of bed and going for a potty break. But just as Catherine Zeta was smiling seductively and introducing me to her twin sister in my dream… Lady Wonder Wench cut loose with a shriek that must have cracked windows all the way to Greg’s house down the block.

Without even waiting for instructions from my brain, my legs did about a quarter of a mile in 1.2 seconds…because I was lying on my side… but in the process, somehow one foot hit the floor…which, of course, caused me to run right into Mr. Wall. That woke me up enough to realize that Lady Wonder Wench had either seen an asteroid the size of Asia hurtling directly toward us, The New York Mets had blown another pennant race, or there was a mouse loose somewhere within our zip code.

The bathroom door slammed, and a pink streak flashed into the bedroom and up onto a chair. It was pretty obvious that Ms. Wench was considering climbing up to an even safer position on top of her dresser. Now, as a Louie-Louie Generation guy…I’ve been around long enough to know that trying to calm a woman down with words while she is trying to climb up on her dresser is not only not going to work… it’s like trying to put out a kitchen fire with a can of gasoline. It was obviously time for action. I was going to have to go head to jaws with the mouse. Mano a mouso. Me against Mickey. And it was’t going to be a catch and release…Ms. Wench was calling for a scalp. Mickey had to go down.

So I quickly slipped on my slippers and pulled on some shorts to protect my most vulnerable parts from possible retaliation on the part of the mouse…grabbed my baseball glove from the top of the closet…and went on the attack.

I opened the bathroom door just a crack, so he couldn’t come running out… and up my leg…and there he was…about two inches long… probably weighing in at three or four ounces…trying to hide behind the bathroom scale…two malevolent red eyes gleaming…fangs bared…tail thrashing back and forth in anticipation of the battle. My plan was to distract him by talking to him, while my baseball glove hand sneaked around behind him for the grab.

Things were going well. I was bent down just a couple of feet from the snarling monster…my baseball glove just inches away from a catch… when he suddenly jumped…vertically…right up into the air…a good two feet…right at my face…as if he were on the attack. I did a quick retreat and tripped over the spare toilet paper holder and landed on my fanny. The mouse countered by jumping behind the wicker laundry basket. I slowly and carefully pulled the basket away from the wall. I could see him…lurking… looking up at me.

He was obviously way too fast for me to catch him or to hit him. So this morning, I got some mouse poison and a couple of traps, and I put them around the house. And, sure enough, right after lunch I went down to the computer room…and there he was. Motionless. Sprawled out on the carpet. Dead. I guess I should have felt victorious. But I couldn’t help think of the contrast here. He’s about three ounces by three inches. I’m about five ten and 180 pounds. And he battled me to at least a draw. I couldn’t beat him when it was just mano a mouso. I had to bring in a cowardly weapon of mouse destruction to do the job.

I know…I didn’t have much choice…if I was going to pry my Lady Wonder Wench off the dresser, I had to go mano a mouso. But I kept thinking about when I was a kid…how much fun I had with the story about “hickory dickory dock… The mouse ran up the clock”…and how I always told our kids the story about “the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse”…and a long time ago…television sets had rabbit ears…but they also had those mouse ears that Annette Funicello wore on her head… and everybody sang…M I C…See you again tomorrow…K E Y…Why? because we like you…M – O – U – S – E. Good night, Mr. Mouse. You did good. You didn’t beat me, but I didn’t beat you either. Your mamma would be proud. You did good.

I’m trying to figure out how to do a better job of explaining last week’s “Do You Do You” podcast and blog. I don’t think I made it clear enough. And it’s important to me that I make it clear enough for you to really understand… because I am a big fan of spousal spice. I guess you could call me a spousal “Spice Guy”. Spousal as in my Lady Wonder Wench. And Spice as in hot.

Some things are so clear, they don’t need an explanation. There were orange traffic cones on Rt. 52 today, with a totally un-necessary sign that said, “Construction next 2 miles.” Right off hand, the only other explanation for orange traffic cones on the road I could come up with would be, “Psychedelic witches embedded in macadam next two miles.”

There are some signs…that should be just as clear…all around us…But it looks like we’re not seeing them. And that’s what makes me think you might want to remember to “Do You.” They are signs of the swift shrinkage of spousal spice.

I was at the diner with my Lady Wonder Wench tonight. There was a fat young guy in the next booth. A typical pimple person. He had his Phillies baseball cap on sideways, and he was playing some kind of game with his hand held whatever it was, totally ignoring the skinny girl in some kind of long rain coat at the same table, who was laughing with somebody else on her cell phone. They came in together, and sat at the same table together, but they sure weren’t…together. What happened ? There must have been some heat…some spice going on at one time in their relationship…or they wouldn’t have been there at the same table.

Over by the salad bar, there was a middle aged, bald guy in a ratty sweatshirt and jeans, who never took his eyes off the game on the flat screen tv on the wall. There was a woman about the same age at the table, reading a magazine. I kept wondering if she was his foxy secretary…some night a long time ago. They were sitting at the same table, but they certainly weren’t together tonight. And I kept wondering what happened…or what didn’t happen…that turned them from lovers into just two half worn out people at the same table.

Over by the cash register, a rather pretty, but very tired looking young long haired brunette woman in jeans and a jacket that said, Chester County EMT on the back, was feeding a baby. The guy at her table had his eyes all over the blonde waitress at the counter. She saw what he was doing, but she didn’t really seem to care. I guess she was used to it. When did she get used to it ? What happened ? And why? And why didn’t she do something about it right then. Why don’t THEY do something about it…now. Why don’t they do something. I don’t know what. But deep down inside…they know. So why don’t they do it ?

Statistics say that 35% of the people looking for hot dates on the internet are already married. Big Louie, his own bad self, the Chief Mustard Cutter of the Louie-Louie Generation says, “If they had more hot dates with their spouses, they probably wouldn’t be fooling around on the internet.” He’s right. Spousal spice.

That’s why I think we are seeing the swift shrinkage of spousal spice. And I hate that. “Do You” was an important part of why my Lady Wonder Wench is with me. And I have a hunch that the coming apart instead of coming together for so many couples is due largely to doing what other people expect them to do. They go to some guru. If and when you feel your spousal spice shrinking…I very much hope you’ll be a smart Louie-Louie Generation lad or lady…and Do You…instead.

I just got a note from a proud podcast participant by the name of Roberta. It says in part, “Do you Do You is a good question. I married a man who I always love, sometimes hate, but was never in love with. We have two beautiful children, a beautiful home, and are financially comfortable, I have a career I love, and am involved in the community. My husband loves me, and has never lifted a hand to me. The very worst thing that takes place in our relationship is that he will not share his life with me in any way. He feels his problems are his alone. My husband is not interested in touching me emotionally or physically, and I have gotten used to this, and am comfortable with this. I used to think that there was something more for me out there somewhere, but as the years and my youth have passed by, I no longer believe there is a “true love” waiting for me. I am rarely un-happy. Am I being a realist, or a fool.”

I don’t have the answer for you Roberta. But you do. It’s very clear, and it’s all the way down inside. And that’s what I mean when I say…you’ve gotta “Do You.” I take that back. You don’t HAVE to do anything. Most people don’t. And I think that’s one of the reasons we are experiencing the swift shrinkage of spousal spice.

There’s a story about that in the original Night Connections personal audio cd and in the current podcast. It’s called, “The Risky Wife.”I like to think she took a chance…and he did some swooping and carrying her off again that night. It’s really hard…when you’ve been together so long. But it’s gooood.

Those are dangerous words…anything you want. My Lady Wonder Wench said exactly that to me one night…a very long time ago. And it WAS a very long time ago. Our lives were very confusing the night she said anything you want. But…all of a sudden it was very clear that I wanted her. I thank God I took my own advice…Do You. Because most of society, and all the experts said…it would never work. But…it did. And it does. So far. But there’s no question that it’s hard to keep the music playing…after such a long time. Sometimes a joke helps to break the routine that develops over the years. You listen to music at night, while you read your book, and she does her needlepoint. It’s a safe, comfortable routine. But after a while it leads to the ever swifter shrinkage of spousal spice. But look…if you Do You, and your hunch is that’s honestly ok with you…that’s ok too. Never let anybody else…ANYBODY ELSE…eat your hunch.

” The Risky Wife” is from the original Night Connections personal audio album. If you like it you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Night Connections icon on the home page.

Shakespeare said it poetically and powerfully. He said, “To thine own self be true, and it follows as the night the day, that thou will not be false to any man.” But you don’t need a guy who dresses in puffy pants and funny hats to tell you basically the same thing.

Big Louie isn’t so poetic and powerful. But the message is about the same. When the knuckles are bare, the fangs are out, and the light in the tunnel is tooting a horn and getting bigger fast…don’t google a guru. Just Do You. And when you do, don’t EVER let anybody else eat your hunch.

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Let’s get one thing straight, here. I have a major head cold, which means I’m just a bit snarky. But in spite of that, as a Louie-Louie Lass, I am more than willing to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone who thinks ANY woman is a … what’s that word? … hooker?. Yeah. THAT word. Know what? More power to her.

So the lady wants to pay her way. Maybe, guys, she knows he has limited funds and she just got paid her waitress salary and figures she can help him pay the rent. Maybe … just maybe … she is tired of sitting beside him at a nice restaurant, wearing her nicest dress and some perfume (cheap, probably, ‘cause she is “only” a waitress), while he keeps his damned baseball hat on. “Manly,” that’s what he thinks he is.

Yup, I know, like my own Louie-Louie Lad, I am a dinosaur. And I am damned glad of it!

My granddaughters (all 5 of ‘em) know to expect the guys they date to treat them with courtesy and at least a semblance of politeness. They aren’t afraid to be as strong as they need to be to get ahead in this tough old world. They aren’t afraid to study, to learn, to innovate … to BE.

As Dick says, they all know how to “Be You” for themselves.

Are we heading for a matriarchal society? Maybe. And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. Grow up, guys. You have been in charge for, what, 4 thousand years now? We don’t want to walk six paces behind anymore.

And Big Louie, and or any of his Lads, would/should take the balls off any idiot who attempted to get stupid with his LLLass.

Guys think linearly. Girls (all of us) do not. We multi-task with ease … although I could do without those damned idiots in the big SUVs talking or texting on a cell phone while they weave their way down the road. Give us the room we have given you ‘lo these many years … and GET OUT OF OUR WAY !

I’m sitting here in my big, comfortable, black leather pappa chair in my living room. I know where I am, I know who I am, and I know why I’m here. I’m not confused. But only because I’ve been following Big Louie’s best advice of all time: “Do You.” “Do You,” means think for yourself, and never let anybody else eat your hunch. “Do You.” Just two words. But they clear up all kinds of confusion, and sometimes they even lower your blood pressure to within human tolerances.

There’s nothing better for creating confusion than statistics. For example, statistics will tell you not to celebrate when your best buddy gets married. After all, statistics show that half the marriages in America end up in divorce. And statistically, that means the other half end up in death. So any expert worth his statistics will tell you to put down that Champaign. Try to talk your buddy into saving his life, or saving his savings from some divorce lawyer. Just because he’s sweaty, pulse pounding, eyes bugging out in love with a Catherine Zeta Jones look alike, who can’t wait to rip his clothes off him, cook him escargot, and pheasant under glass, and chill his wine, and spend the rest of her life rubbing his back and telling him how wonderful he is…think about the statistics man. Right.

“Do You” clears up confusion. It means more than just think for yourself. It means any time you’ve done some thinking, and you’re still not absolutely clear about what you should do, ask yourself what instinctively makes sense to you. Trust that instinct guy who lives down deep in your gut… even when he’s disagreeing with all the experts who write the books. The experts are working for their publishers. Your gut guy is working for you.

I guess you can tell, I’m a little torqued off right now. The Wall Street Journal just published a book excerpt by a big time relationship expert, that called modern women, “dishonest, self-involved, slutty, manipulative, shallow, controlling and gold digging.” And the expert who wrote the book is a woman.

That’s mind boggling to me. So I thought about it for a while. After all…the woman who wrote it is an expert. She’s a woman…and it’s the Wall Street Journal, for God’s sake.

But I know some modern women…including two daughters, four grand daughters, three daughters in law, a couple of friends, and most of all, my Lady Wonder Wench…and none of them are dishonest, self-involved, slutty, manipulative, shallow, controlling or gold digging.” I tend to take insults like that personally, when they involve people I love.

I guess I’m a little super sensitive to it right now, because my Lady Wonder Wench had a very bad accident a while ago…and I almost lost her. And I don’t take kindly to anything that would hurt or insult her.

So it’s a good time to remember Big Louie’s advice…”Do You. Don’t let anybody else eat your hunch.” Pay attention to the gut guy inside. It not only clears up any confusion, but it has a tendency to lower my Brooklyn born and bred blood pressure…which is good.

Women are not dishonest, slutty, self involved, gold digging, shallow and controlling. Some women are some of those things some of the time. But get real. “Do You.” Calm down. My gut guy says that even now, when we touch computer screens more often than we touch each other, it’s easy to put your finger on what’s real, and what’s not.

Think for yourself how that starts out. When you were a baby, one of the first things you did was to find your own fingers. Then when you knew where yours were, you noticed there were bigger fingers nearby. Much bigger than yours. And you liked curling your fingers around those bigger fingers. You learned that they belonged to somebody you could trust. You started connecting that feeling with a soft voice, and a face with a smile. You learned that you could hold on to that hand, and use your legs to walk. That hand made you feel secure. Then you learned to let go of that hand…and take a few steps until another hand caught you and kept you from falling. That was probably the same hand that held up a two wheel bike for you, till you got it to ballance. You gradually learned to feel what was real. You made a fist, you held a pencil, you shook hands, you held a steering wheel, you held another hand, warm, about the same size as yours, you felt someone’s lovely body in your hands…you held a baby…and felt those little fingers in your hand.

A long time ago, I found out you can stir a little of both…the real, and the unreal…together…and make a good feeling happen in the fingertips of your imagination. That’s where the Quiet Hands personal audio cd came from. There is a story called, “The Romance Novel Fingertips” in the Quiet Hands cd. I put it in the current podcast, because I wanted to do that for the estrogen enriched among us…the Louie-Louie Generation ladies, who were so hurt and insulted by the Expert with the book in the Wall Street Journal. I guess you can tell that kind of torqued my testosterone. The Romance Novel Fingertips is from the Quiet Hands personal audio cd. If you like the Romance Novel Fingertips, you can just keep the current podcast. Or if you want a fresh copy, just download it from the Quiet Hands icon on the opening page.

So…”Do You. Never let anybody else eat your hunch.” Trust the gut guy all the way down deep inside you. “Do You.” If it works for you the way it does for me, tell a friend about it. Then when your friend gets confused and upset, you can always have some fun with it. You can say…hey… do you “Do You” ?

I cannot tell a lie … according to Big Louie. I listen to “Good Night” at 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon. Of course, I have an excuse. That’s when I take the CD he makes for me in my car and go do errands … and listen. I have to be careful ‘cause Dick’s voice usually makes me go all goose bumply and such and you KNOW that’s dangerous when you’re driving.

But hey, if LLLads can get all hot and bothered at the sight of a pretty girl sashaying down the street, who am I to do otherwise at the sound of a LLLad’s sexy voice?

It basically comes down to “toys for boys”, you see. Now Dick isn’t exactly a techy where computers are concerned, but he has learned a great deal (and he cheats; he has our son Dave to ask questions when he gets lost) and he has all kinds of “toys” to help him figure out what’s going on with the blog. He knows how many of you listen or read at a given time and he knows where those computer connections come from: Great Britain, Ireland, Australia, Greenland, Germany and, yes, even China. (I don’t think I ever thanked one of you for my teddy bear when I got hurt, so … thanks very much.) Did I say China? Yup.

What D. seems to forget is that not everyone sleeps at night … even though he used to work at night and sleep (sort of) during the day. SOME people try to get their 20 winks in broad daylight, so anything that helps them get to sleep is certainly welcome.

Now I’m not saying (before Big Louie, His Own Bad Self gets his knickers in a twist) that D. bores people to sleep. Not me, certainly. But if the purpose of the program is to help people sleep, then I say, go for it. Listen when it matters.

Anyway, I don’t know why D. is so confused. Makes perfect sense to me. Y’all listen … when you listen!